The Moon and the Sun

An awful monster leaped from the rolling waves. The demon danced across the stage. It resembled Sherzad, Sherzad made to look horrible, her face all protruding fangs and long ears and twisted goat-horns, bloody lips and great red eyes. Painted sea monsters dived among the waves as the dancer cavorted.

A golden chariot descended from the clouds. Tritons appeared, sounding a fanfare with their trumpets. The horses of Apollo stepped like clockwork across the stage, pranced in place as the sun god descended, and sank out of sight beneath the waves.

The harpsichord sang with a joyous, victorious air, the theme of Sherzad’s freedom.

His breast shining with a gold sunburst radiating diamonds, Apollo confronted the sea monster. The short sword gave small protection against the sharp talons of the creature; like knives, the talons scored Apollo’s small round shield. Yet as the combatants danced, the sea monster gradually yielded to Apollo’s will, cringing before him, embracing his knees, bowing its head in willing submission to collar and chain.

That isn’t what Sherzad sang! Marie-Josèphe cried to herself. Despite the ballet, Sherzad’s song telling Sherzad’s story thrilled her; the music existed for anyone who would take the trouble to see it.

Apollo led the sea monster across the stage. In the shadows beside the harpsichord, a tenor rose to sing, accompanied by Domenico’s sublime technique.

Apollo, god of the sun,
Your flight creates the dawn.
Your might conquers the sea,
Your light gilds the waves,
The creatures of the ocean
Surrender to your glory!

The music ended. Tenor, Apollo, and Domenico bowed to His Majesty, while the sea monster prostrated itself on the stage. His Majesty nodded and smiled, accepting their representation of his triumph. Around him, royalty and aristocracy, cardinals and bishops applauded him. He took their tribute as his due.

“What a wonderful performance!” Madame exclaimed. “What lovely music! Did Signor Scarlatti compose it?”

“Sherzad composed it, Madame,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“The sea monster!” Madame laughed. “You composed it yourself—how talented you are!”

“Marie-Josèphe, dear heart, don’t cry,” Lotte whispered.

Count Lucien rode Zelis to Cardinal Ottoboni’s carriage. He bade Yves dismount and attend his King.

Yves bowed to His Majesty and kissed Innocent’s ring.

“Your success pleases me, Father de la Croix.”

“Your Majesty. I—”

Yves glanced at Marie-Josèphe, but she could not possibly hear what he was about to say. Perhaps she would never forgive him for the choice he had made.

“Your Majesty, Your Holiness,” he whispered, so no one else could hear. “I’ve proved—proved the effect of the sea monster’s strange organ. It is… as you hoped.”

His Majesty remained as impassive as the practice of fifty years of rule could make him. Innocent reacted with dismay.

“Cousin,” he said to Louis, “consider. If this is true—what does God mean us to do? The Church must examine the creature. I must have it.”

“I will see,” His Majesty said. “M. de Chrétien, if you please.”

Yves glanced up, into the clear grey gaze of Count Lucien. The count regarded him with utter contempt. He had heard what Yves said, and he knew it for a falsehood.

Yves looked away. Count Lucien could do nothing; he was as ignorant of natural philosophy as all the courtiers; he could not prove Yves lied.

Count Lucien handed the King a flat square box of exotic wood inlaid with a coruscation of mother-of-pearl. His Majesty opened it. On black velvet, a gold disk bore a representation of His Majesty in Roman armor, riding bareback on a charger, his hair flying in the wind. His Majesty lifted the medal. It twisted on its heavy chain, turning to reveal an incised portrait, Marie-Josèphe’s drawing of Sherzad, leaping joyously through the waves.

Yves realized what he had done.

He stumbled, his legs weak. Catching the side of the carriage, Yves kept his feet. He tried to raise his head. Short of breath, he stared at the ground, at the sparkling wheels, thinking, I could fling myself beneath them. How else can I do penance for my deceitful words, but by casting myself into hell? I’ll never have to face Marie-Josèphe when she understands what I’ve done, never hear the sea woman’s death scream, never see His Majesty’s disappointment, when he dies…

His Majesty placed the medal around his neck. The audience murmured its approval. Yves raised his head, tears running cold down his face. His Majesty smiled.

“You show a charming and modest sensibility, Father de la Croix,” His Majesty said. “Come. Ride with me.”

Yves climbed into the carriage, as weak as if he had been felled by a tropical fever. He sat beside His Majesty, wiping his tears on his sleeve, forcing himself not to throw himself at the King’s feet, confess his dishonesty, and destroy himself as well as the sea woman.